


overthrow my youth

by stargirls



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Prompt Fill, figured i should finally put this on ao3 lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:46:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23840281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stargirls/pseuds/stargirls
Summary: Young men, or pillars of flame that blazed in the street and kicked up dust like the Cataclysm come early. What was the difference?
Relationships: Julia Burnsides/Magnus Burnsides
Comments: 5
Kudos: 19





	overthrow my youth

**Author's Note:**

> a prompt fill from @firelord-ruby on tumblr, who sent in this one-hit k.o.:
> 
> _magnus and kaylen used to be friends, once_
> 
> and how was i supposed to ignore that?
> 
> i hope you're all staying safe and upholding social distancing if you can. for those of you who are essential services, called back to work despite the danger, or just working hard to make a living, thank you for pressing on. i can promise nothing but that this too shall pass.

_Wild things_ , the town called them, like they were less young men than specters of nature, tearing through the streets in a whirlwind and only stopping to help old Serafine when she dropped her groceries at the curb. Kalen used to say it was the only reason Raven’s Roost hadn’t kicked them clear of the Corridor: they could do as much good as they could wreak havoc, and besides, Magnus cared too deeply for the Waxmens’ reputation. _Wild things_ , and more occasionally, according to old Serafine, _good boys_. Boys who could do a little bit of growing up when the situation called for it—or when Julia Waxmen was in the vicinity, and Magnus dropped everything to lift someone’s cargo clear off the ground.

The week before Tavers dies, Kalen has dirt under his fingernails. They’d agreed to sweep the sidewalk in front of Par Teller’s shop after a stint with Kalen’s newest innovation—ground-spice graffiti, an idea that had them both delirious with mischief until Magnus had accidentally tipped a barrel of paprika over the threshold. Now the sun has started to dip beneath the furthest pillar, and spills in liquid gold around the cliffs. Their shadows stretch and rib across the cobblestones next to the spindly bodies of Teller’s brooms.

“God, he was pissed.” Magnus cracks a grin as he brushes paprika into the gutter. “I couldn’t tell if his face was red because of that, or, y’know.”

Kalen grips his broom mid-handle and raises it up like a crotchety old man’s walking stick, and Magnus laughs; the hearty, chest-deep laugh Kalen is so good at bringing out in him. “ _You kids must think you’re real cute!_ ”

“You heard what he said? Something about, like, we oughta be in politics because of how quick we are to wanna solve the problems we caused. Kind of a low blow, right? It wasn’t just me?”

“Mm.” The broom’s bristles hit the street, and Kalen blinks into the sunset. “Nah. I mean, he’s got a point.”

Magnus laughs again. “That we’d make good politicians? You’re fuckin’ kidding me.”

“No, really. You’re always going on about wanting to help people.” He’s serious, Magnus realizes. There’s no twist to the corner of his mouth; no telltale crinkle at his left eye. “Solving everybody’s problems. Isn’t that what a politician does?”

“You seriously wanna be like Old Man Tavers? Farting around in some giant ritzy house while everybody else lives and works and _does stuff_?”

“Who says a politician has to fart around?” Kalen twirls the broom and strikes it against the curb, and a tiny cloud of paprika drifts into the air. “We could be different. We could get out and do stuff. Solve everybody’s problems for them.”

Magnus blinks. “You’d really wanna do that?”

“I dunno. It’d be making a difference. Making our mark on this town without pissing everybody off for once.”

“Well, okay, yeah, _sure_ , it’d be nice to have people singing our praises. But we don’t have to go into _politics_ to make that happen. You’d die of boredom, Kalen.” Magnus reaches over to tap him on the head with his broom, and Kalen smiles, but it looks halfhearted. “C’mon.”

“Singing our praises,” is all Kalen says. “You think?”

“I think you got paprika in your ear and it’s infecting your brain. Are you gonna help me with this, or what?”

* * *

The word is that Tavers dies in his sleep. He’d entered his twilight years an apparent lifetime ago, and issued decrees with a papery voice that gave way under the ghost of a breeze, and so although no one dares voice it allowed, a certain peace settles over Raven’s Roost after the memorial. The People’s Council sets the vote for a week later, and Magnus cracks a joke about anarchy around the dinner table, but nothing changes, really. He still works sandpaper over his latest attempt at a coat rack for the first half of the morning, and then he meets Kalen in the square, for fruit tarts from the girl who blushes and shrinks under Kalen’s wicked grin.

They split a tart—mango-strawberry—and go to sit by the fountain. Today, the banners that twine around the street lamps are a somber black, but they’re all that remain of the services from the day before. Kalen is kinetic. He shifts on the fountain’s finely hewn edge and grinds his teeth and taps his foot, and the dark circles rimming his eyes are fresh and deep. His half of the tart sits unacknowledged and untouched.

“Uh,” says Magnus. “You gonna eat that, or…”

Kalen doesn’t seem to hear him. “I have this idea,” he says. “I’ve been thinking about it since Teller’s.”

“Okay, shoot. Can I have your half if you’re not gonna have it?”

He tosses the half distractedly to Magnus and sits back on his hands. “What if I ran for Governor?”

Magnus chokes on his first bite. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me just fine. I want to run for Governor. Tavers was old,” says Kalen, “and he didn’t _know_ the people, and everybody the Council nominates, they’re just gonna be the same. Somebody who sits up in that ritzy old house and farts around. No. The people need a man of action.”

“A _man of action_?” Magnus echoes, through a mouthful of tart. “Do you hear yourself?”

“Am I wrong, though?” He looks at Magnus with a familiar fire; the same spark of resolve that ignites at the thought of a brand-new scheme to pass the time. But Kalen seems different. Righteous. Hungry. “Do you really want another old crat in power? Or would you want somebody who knows what your favorite flavor of tart is? Somebody who knows it’s worth skipping the end of the workday to catch the sunset over Craftsman’s Corridor? Somebody who _gets_ you?”

“But you think you could get _voted in_? How would that even work?”

“I’ll campaign,” says Kalen. “I’ll campaign this whole week, and you’ll help me.”

“Well—now hang on—”

“And if it doesn’t work, we can say we tried.” He swings his foot against the fountain and tips his head to the sun. “But I’ve got a feeling about this. C’mon. Have my instincts ever steered you wrong?”

“Uh, yeah,” Magnus says, incredulously. “So many times.”

“Then I guess you’ll just have to trust me on this.” Kalen sits up and turns to meet Magnus’s eyes, and suddenly Magnus understands, better than before, what it’s like to be on the receiving end of that stare. He’d give this man a strawberry-mango tart, he thinks. He’d give this man anything he thinks he deserves, because there’s something about that stare that makes him surer of himself than he’s ever been. “So are you with me?”

* * *

The _campaign_ is really less of a campaign and more of a week spent going door-to-door, but Magnus is surprised to find that excluding the odd, scorned shopkeep that locked the doors and shuttered the windows at the sight of them, the people of Raven’s Roost seem intrigued by Kalen’s proposal. Dylan Stokes offers them his cargo wagon. Ruby Sheppard brings her wife and daughters out to the porch to hear Kalen talk about his plans for the town. Julia Waxmen stops by on her way from the Corridor, and she spends one afternoon helping them hang crudely sketched posters and embellishing them with her own elegant cursive. Magnus trips over his own feet more than once, and definitely has to interrupt Kalen mid-suggestive comment, but Julia just gives him a smile that warms him from the inside out and slaps the next poster across an open wall.

By the end of the week, there isn’t a soul in Raven’s Roost that doesn’t know about Kalen’s bid for governor. One sunset finds Magnus and Kalen traipsing up to the enforcers’ outpost, loaded down with strawberry-mango tarts and winning smiles, and the enforcer on duty greets them in the friendliest encounter Magnus has ever had with law enforcement. “Allan’s boy,” he says to Kalen, and then, to Magnus, “the junior craftsman. Strange pair, to want to run the town.”

“Ambition doesn’t pick and choose, sir,” says Kalen, and the enforcer grins.

He takes Magnus and Kalen up the stairs and into the outpost, where a team of tired-looking enforcers swarm eagerly around their the bags of pastries. Magnus stands back and lets Kalen talk, exchanging handshakes and more winning smiles; he’d had no idea how silver-tongued his friend really is. Plying them with food helps, he’s sure. But Kalen has a charisma about him that he’d only seen in fragments before.

They sit around and eat as the sun sinks beneath the horizon, and Kalen is drawn into conversation with the enforcer that had met them at the door. Magnus sits nearby, turning his ear lazily to their voices; he’s started to feel thick and heavy in the haze of late evening, and with the crumbs of two strawberry-mango tarts dotting his shirt.

“Y’know, Tavers,” the enforcer is saying, “he behaved the same as all these politicians do. Always hesitant to bring out the big guns. Like they refuse to even acknowledge that Raven’s Roost has a militia. Why would you have a militia if you never intended to use it? What’s the point?”

“You’d be a powerful ally to anyone,” says Kalen, in that smooth diplomat’s voice. “Tavers was a fool to not realize that.”

“Exactly,” the enforcer says, and leans in. Magnus strains his ear a little harder as he says, “Any candidate we back, they’re gonna be grateful for that kind of sway. It’s just a matter of trusting that that candidate isn’t gonna shelf us. You know what I mean?”

Kalen smiles. “I can’t speak for the Council’s decision. But I always thought Raven’s Roost would benefit from the militia’s involvement.”

“ _Hah_. You and I,” says the enforcer, “I think we’re gonna get along just fine.”

He grins, sharp and polished, and Kalen matches it with one of his own. Something cold and heavy drops in the pit of Magnus’s stomach.

They leave the enforcers just before midnight, and Kalen practically waltzes down the path, light on his feet and the promise of victory. “I think that went _great_ ,” he says, airily. “Really great. Don’t you?”

Magnus doesn’t respond. The freezing knot of uncertainty in his gut has started to melt into tiny shards of ice.

“Magnus.” Kalen swings around and gives him a look. “You okay? In a food coma already?”

“What’d you say to that enforcer guy?”

“What do you mean?” His tone is light, but the lighthearted twist to his mouth drops away. “We were just talking.”

“You said you wanted to get the militia more involved here. In Raven’s Roost. What does that mean?”

“It’s just some bullshit to get the votes,” says Kalen. “What do you care?”

“I dunno,” Magnus says, “but that sounds _bad_? Like, _bad_ bad. Like _martial law_ bad. Why’d you lie to them?”

“I didn’t lie.”

“You said it was bullshit.”

“It _was_.” Kalen’s eyes flash in the low light. “I’m not gonna let them go marching through the streets collecting taxes, or whatever the fuck. But I’ll find some way to keep my promise. Who knows? Maybe people could use a stricter rule around here.”

Magnus laughs incredulously, but breaks off when Kalen doesn’t join him. “You gotta be kidding me. _Stricter rule_? Who _are_ you?”

“Hey, all I’m saying is that this is the town that let us run around and do whatever the hell we wanted.” Kalen shrugs. “Maybe that’s not a good thing.”

“Maybe not, but there’s a difference between being a stupid kid and _martial fucking law_.”

“I never said shit about martial law!” He rounds on his heel, and Magnus nearly takes a step back. “Will you shut up already! It’s _politics_! We make some bullshit promises we never intend on keeping, we do some smiling and waving, and then the people sing our praises. Isn’t that what you wanted? Isn’t _this_ —” He gestures around them, like the campaign hangs over them like a shroud— “exactly what we talked about?”

Anger ignites in Magnus like a flame. “I’m not a politician,” he snipes. “I agreed to help you and that’s _it_. And if you’re gonna act like a _dick_ , I’m not sure I wanna help you at all!”

Kalen scoffs. “Like I need you. All you’ve done is sit on your ass and get all moonstruck around Julia Waxmen.”

“Don’t _fucking_ talk about her.”

“You’re taking all this way too personally,” he says, and his voice is uncharacteristically cold. “Who cares if we tell a couple white lies? Who cares if we shake things up a little? God knows this fucking town could do with something new. Everything’s _old_ , and _dried up_ , just like Tavers was. They need us. They need _me_. The only reason you can’t see that is because your head’s so far up Steven’s ass—”

Magnus punches him. Kalen wheezes and collapses on his back in a cloud of dust, and for a second, he’s sure that he’s made a horrible mistake.

Then Kalen wipes at a trickle of blood at his chin and spits, “Knew it. I fucking knew it.”

“Shut up,” Magnus snaps. He can’t formulate another retort over the ringing in his ears, so he steps past Kalen and storms down the path, and his heart throbs against the web of ice in his chest the whole way.

* * *

Ed Barrister is the Council’s replacement, and he doesn’t stand a chance. At the first and only debate on the rickety stage in the town square, he scrapes and mumbles as Kalen waxes lyrical on his plans for Raven’s Roost and his love for the people, to uproarious applause. He’s sworn in by the end of the day. His family’s house stands empty by nightfall. Magnus watches as the cargo wagon rumbles up the trail to Tavers’ old house, a copper-studded behemoth larger than every workshop in Craftsman’s Corridor combined.

He finds Kalen thanking people at the polling center and joins the line, behind an elderly woman clutching one of Julia’s posters. When Kalen sees him, he sets his jaw in a polite, closed-lip smile, and grips Magnus’s hand a little too tightly.

“We did good,” he says. “Didn’t we?”

“Tavers’ house, huh?”

“My father insisted. It’s supposed to be gracious.”

“As long as you don’t just fart around.”

The tension between them caves, just a little. A near-earnest grin flashes across Kalen’s face.

“Couldn’t’ve done it without you,” he says. “Honestly.”

“This is fucking crazy, Kalen.”

“It will be, for a little while. But I think I could really make something of this town. The people still like me.” He nudges Magnus’s shoulder and says, “I think you do, too.”

“If you really want to make a difference,” says Magnus, “you’ve only got a couple years to do it. Better make ’em count, huh?”

“A couple years?”

“That’s the law.”

Kalen shrugs. “Laws change.”

“Not those ones.”

“For now,” he says, and shakes Magnus’s hand. “I won’t forget you, y’know.”

Magnus smiles over the shard of ice sticking in his stomach. “Nah. ’Course not. I won’t let you.”

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr @lichlesbian and on twitter @secondsappho!


End file.
